


On the Banks of the Lethe

by Beelieve



Category: Black Sails
Genre: AKA: What if Season 1 James Flint met Season 4 John Silver., Angst, Confusion, Gross abuse of tropes, M/M, SFBB2019, Stupid men in love (even if one doesn’t quite remember), amnesia!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 11:32:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beelieve/pseuds/Beelieve
Summary: Waking after a head injury with no memory of the past two years, Flint finds himself a stranger in a strange land. Faced with the politics of a war he doesn’t remember, and a Walrus crew he hardly recognizes, Flint must reconcile what he knows with what has transpired: Gates’ betrayal; the discovery of the Urca gold; the aftermath of Charles Town. All preceded by the rise of a quartermaster he doesn’t trust—a quartermaster he only knows to be a liar and a thief. Uncertain of his newfound loyalties, Flint suddenly finds himself standing in the shadow of a monster of his own inadvertent making: Long John Silver, Nassau’s newly christened Pirate King.





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

Flint wakes as he usually does, the sounds of the _Walrus’s_ hull creaking around him.

And it _is_ the _Walrus_ , he knows, even before he opens his eyes. Every ship he’s ever served on—every ship he’s taken by force—has had its own particular cacophony of ghosts stowed within its wooden beams. The ornery clamor of a ship at sea was like no other. 

He had once tried to describe it to Miranda, the nuances of such noises. The peculiar way a ship’s lament changed when it was vexed—its contented purr suddenly transformed into a banshee keen, amplified all the more by the mercurial mood of the waves beneath. He’s not quite certain how much she actually remembers of that conversation. Probably more than Flint himself.

They’d both been drunk on nostalgia that night—and drunker still on a seemingly bottomless pitcher of mulled wine. Miranda had listened so attentively to his tales, mindlessly refilling his glass no less than four times within the hour, all the while topping off her own at every quarter chime of the clock. He’d waxed poetic until nearly midnight about the first ship-of-the-line he’d ever sailed on as a boy, the memories still so fresh in his mind: his first sighting of its sleek, dark frame; the overwhelming odor of pine tar, seeping up between the planks of the deck on a sweltering day.

When he’d compared the sounds of its first launch to that of a copulating ox, Miranda had laughed herself to tears. His heartfelt rendition of the erotic cry certainly hadn’t helped matters. Following several more vigorous wails, Thomas had finally emerged from his study, tutting at them both with fond exasperation as he’d guided them off to bed, Miranda’s hiccuped giggles echoing down the hallway.

Listening to the _Walrus_ now, the familiar din should comfort Flint, just as it always has.

And yet, today, he finds only the opposite. 

There’s a muffled boom from above, distracting him from his thoughts. It’s followed by the footfalls of the crew, unhurried in their work. They’re rolling something heavy by the sound of it, the disturbance making its way through numerous layers of timber and pitch to still reach his cabin. The noises continue, overlapping now with a low drumming that’s been growing louder in his head. Each painful thud, one after the other, perfectly timed to the rhythm of his heart.

Flint expects pre-dawn darkness when he opens his eyes.

Instead, a bruised amber glow fills the cabin. Above him, thin streaks of sunlight strike against the back wall of the room, keeping the growing shadows at bay. Flint blinks at the ceiling, letting his eyes adjust.

_No bells._

The sounds above him continue, impervious to Flint’s confusion.

_It isn’t morning._

The pressure in his head intensifies, and Flint tries to swallow, his throat unbearably dry. He licks his lips and his tongue brings back the taste of blood. There’s a sharp pain at the movement, and he realizes with some surprise that he’s bitten his tongue in his sleep. He lifts his hand to his face, holding back a hiss. His bottom lip is swollen, and cut, a crust of dried blood still coating the wound. He welcomes the discomfort though. For all the aching parts of him, the sensation clears his mind and stops the pounding in his head.

It’s just enough pain to quell the sudden realization that he’s not alone.

Flint senses the presence more so than he hears it, although he does hear it, now that the drumming has stopped. How he’d missed it earlier, he cannot say. Between the footfalls from above, and the shifting of the lantern hung over his cot, the sound of papers being rustled is so innocuous, he nearly misses it. But there it is, intermixed with the quiet thump of a boot heel striking against the floor, followed a moment later by a curious _clunk_. The noises repeat, soft and surreptitious and undeniably _wrong_.

Flint turns his head slowly, the cot below him rocking with the gentle motion of the ship.

A shadowed figure stands with his back to Flint, hunched over a table set in the center of the cabin. A lantern illuminates just enough of the surface for Flint to see the man’s hands riffling through a stack of maps. The intruder drags a page free and leans forward, pressing his palms atop the table as he uses the lantern’s low light to examine the chart he’s chosen. He tilts his head, his profile blocked by a curtain of dark wavy hair, but Flint has seen enough. 

_Thief_.

The thought sparks through his mind like wildfire.

Rage curls through Flint as his hand slips slowly downward, drawing a knife from a scabbard bolted to the bottom of the cot’s frame. It’s a small weapon, the curved blade meant for gutting fish, not men, but it’s all Flint needs. The cot barely moves as he shifts his legs over the side, but the ship does, and he holds his bare feet firmly to the floorboards, making sure the wooden frame doesn’t knock into the wall behind it.

There’s a commotion on the deck above, followed by a shout of annoyance, and Flint uses the interruption to mask the sounds of his movement.

He’ll give the man credit. Something alerts the thief to his presence, be it the creak of the bed or the way Flint’s breathing has changed, but whatever it is, it isn’t enough. As the man’s shoulders shift, turning in Flint’s direction, Flint darts forward to slide his dagger under the man’s chin. At the same time, his free hand takes hold of the thief’s hair, dragging his head back to further expose his throat.

The man struggles in surprise, his back bowed against Flint’s chest as he tries to free himself. He only stills when the blade’s serrated edge bites into his skin. He tries to speak, but Flint presses the knife deeper.

“ _Quiet_.”

Flint listens, waiting to see if the sounds of their struggle have drawn an accomplice, but nothing moves beyond the door. He’s been anticipating this moment for some time now. In the wake of Singleton’s failed bid for captaincy, the crew’s morale has all but deteriorated. Even the promise of gold was no longer enough to ease their ennui. Gates had managed to keep their loyalty as best he could, prize after disappointing prize, but Flint had been certain this time was different.

“Who sent you?” Flint hisses.

The answer is only a choked reply, and Flint eases the knife back a fraction.

“ _Flint_? What are--”

“Were you working with _Singleton_?” Flint interrupts, emphasizing his frustration with a tug of the man’s hair. “Biding your time, once he was out of the way? Waiting for your moment to strike?”

Flint doesn’t wait for the answer—the fire now rushing through his veins. After everything he’s worked for, after everything he’s _forfeited_ to be here, he won’t lose it all to a petty thief.

_Not again._

He steps back, dragging the man with him as he heads for the door. The thief trips, caught off-guard by the quick pivot, and Flint’s forearm snakes around his throat, cutting off his ability to speak as he hauls the other man out of the cabin. Their trek down the corridor goes no smoother, however, as Flint soon finds himself bodily dragging the thief when the shorter man stumbles, unable to keep up with Flint’s hurried pace.

By the time they reach the deck, Flint’s headache has only worsened. Though the sun sits low on the horizon, fading but persistently bright, the sudden flare of light causes him to close his eyes a moment as he steps outside. When he opens them again, he blinks rapidly, trying to banish the dark spots in his vision as he drags the man toward the helm. The thief staggers again, and it takes all of Flint’s strength just to keep them both upright.

At the edge of the deck, a group of men stand working, their conversation slowly fading as they turn to stare.

“S-sir?”

A young blond man steps forward, his eyes flitting between Flint and his captive.

Flint doesn’t recognize the man, but he can’t be more than sixteen. A _boy_ , really. He knows he’s been preoccupied of late, of course, and investing the time to learn every new recruit’s name had never been a priority, at least until they’d proven their worth to him. It doesn’t bother Flint, not knowing the boy before him. What _does_ bother him, however, are the four other men standing behind him.

Each one just as unfamiliar as the next.

The silence ripples outward onto the lower decks, as more and more men stop their duties to stare up at the disturbance. Soon the only sounds are those of the waves and the echoed din rising up from the galley below. One by one the men edge forward, closer still. Above him, Flint can hear the shuffling of feet on the quarterdeck as he scans the throng before him, finally relieved to see a few faces he recognizes: _Dooley. Zaki. O’Brien. Ainsley._

Footfalls land upon the staircase behind him. Flint turns, watching as De Groot descends slowly, each step slower than the next. He seems to be the only man willing to approach.

“We have a thief in our midst,” Flint offers, nodding toward his captive.

As De Groot steps onto the deck, he watches Flint as he would an approaching storm.

“Captain?”

There’s something about De Groot’s hesitation that sets Flint on edge. More men encroach, ascending the stairs from the gun deck. They close in on Flint at a careful pace, close enough that he can see the way their eyes shift to each other, sharing furtive looks. _Confused_ _looks_.

“Find Gates,” Flint orders. “He’ll need to deal with this.”

De Groot’s eyes widen.

The drumming increases in Flint’s head, and he grimaces, blinking hard against the sunlight. When there’s still no response from the older man, Flint frowns.

“ _Gates_ ,” he insists, as if there’s any way De Groot hadn’t understood him the first time. As if he isn’t looking at Flint like he’s speaking in fucking _tongues_.

Flint turns to the unfamiliar boy, who flinches at the sudden attention. 

“Where’s your quartermaster?” he demands. 

The boy twitches nervously, looking to the crewmen behind him a moment, then back at Flint, his brow creased with uncertainty.

“ _Answer_ _me_!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Flint catches the figure of another man creeping down the stairs, his blade sheathed but no less deadly. Flint doesn’t miss the way Joji’s hand twitches as it settles over the hilt of his sword, nor how he and De Groot lock eyes, silently plotting.

The boy swallows, raising a shaky finger at Flint.

 _No_.

_At the thief._

The man in his arms shifts again, struggling to lean forward as Flint keeps his attention on Joji’s progress. At the edge of the deck, another group of men inch closer, their confusion slowly morphing into anger, into _bloodlust._ And yet something keeps them from closing the distance. They’re hesitating, Flint realizes, but it’s not because they’re afraid of him. They’re afraid of what Flint will _do_.

The realization takes the very air from his lungs.

 _Mutiny_ , Flint thinks, the word sending a wave of coldness through his body. He’d rectified this, he’d _stopped_ this. Not now—it can’t happen _now_. Singleton had been working alone, Flint had been sure of it. There’d been no indication he’d had a partner. 

Flint edges slowly toward the door, making sure his hostage remains between him and his traitorous crew.

_Fuck their inability to see beyond their own petty needs._

_Fuck their shortsightedness, their--_

“Wait!”

The command booms across the deck, halting the approaching men in their tracks. They hesitate, their gazes settling onto the thief. And it’s the _thief_ who spoke—who now pries Flint’s forearm just far enough away from his throat to press forward and force a hand outward, motioning for them to keep their distance.

“Just _wait_ ,” the thief implores again, his voice treacherously calm.

And the men… they listen.

Each and every goddamn one of them.

Flint slides the blade back against the man’s throat, stopping whatever he’s about to say. Whatever order he’s about to give. Whoever he is, he’s responsible for this. He’s the only reason the crew haven’t taken Flint apart piece by piece. He’s Flint’s only bargaining chip in this moment, and they both know it.

Before the men can react, Flint steps backward, his knife still held to the thief’s throat as he drags him down the passageway and into the cabin. Once he’s gotten them both inside, Flint only has a moment to spare before Joji comes barreling through the darkness, a half-dozen other men following behind. He flings the thief to the floor and pivots quickly toward the door, slamming it shut and flipping both the upper and lower bolts before the first body strikes against the wood. It won’t hold forever, but it will keep them out for a few minutes.

Flint just needs time to think.

As the thief draws in a choked breath, finally free, Flint stalks across the dark cabin, his eyes catching on his weapons locker. He takes out the first cutlass he sees, holding it aloft. He’d commandeered it from a Dutch merchant some years ago, the hilt encrusted with rubies and delicate whorls of gold. Though it had never seen real battle, Flint knew it was still sharp. He’d made sure of it. 

Flint finds two pistols next, stored within a padded metal box, but only one is loaded. There’s no spare powder or shot, however, and he curses as he tucks the usable gun into his waistband.

When he turns back, the noises outside have only grown louder. He finds the thief now kneeling, one hand pressed against the floor as the other clutches at his throat. Flint expects him to stand, perhaps even make a fool-hearted attempt to escape, but the man remains sprawled where he’d fallen. With his head tilted down, his hair is a wild mess of tangled curls. They scrap the floor as he hunches forward, drawing in a stilted breath, then another. Just above the vee of the thief’s shirt, nearly hidden by the edges of the collar of his blue coat and dangling hair, Flint spots a thin line of redness curving around the man’s neck, the bleeding already slowed.

The thief will live, _for_ _now_.

If only Flint could say the same about himself.

As the ruckus outside the door grows louder—as more men gather in the corridor, clearly considering their options—Flint stalks toward his captive. Pressing the tip of the cutlass’s blade under the man’s downturned face, he lifts the thief’s chin.

Flint isn’t sure what he expects to see, when their gazes finally meet. Rage perhaps; or even surprise, given that Flint had clearly foiled his plans. Fear is the most likely emotion, considering the circumstances. Knowing that Flint will not spare him. Men like to think themselves valiant in the face of death, Flint knows. They imagine valor flowing through their veins—not the inefficient ichor of a soon-to-be dead man. In the end, most never welcome Fate’s final judgement with open arms. He expects no less from this one.

“Where’s Gates?” Flint demands, fingers tightening around the handle.

When the thief refuses to look at him, fighting against the authority of the blade, Flint flicks his wrist, nicking the man’s chin. The thief yelps, glaring up indignantly.

Flint freezes.

_Those eyes._

_He knows those eyes._

“ _You_ ,” Flint hisses.

The wildfire returns, drawing up his chest. The rumbling in his head increases, and Flint finds his hand shaking, though his grip on the sword never falters. The man’s blue eyes go wide, and he raises a hand toward Flint, as if attempting to placate him.

“Before you do anything rash, I need you to listen.”  
  
_Thief_.

Flint stalks forward, dropping the cutlass atop the table. It lands with an ominous _clang_ , scattering the piled maps across the floor.

 _Silver_.

_It’s always fucking Silver._

From the moment he’d first laid eyes on Silver, from the moment their lives had collided in the Wrecks, he’d known the other man would bring nothing but chaos. He should have thrown him to the sharks the first moment he’d gotten the information they’d needed. Keeping him alive had been a mistake, and now Flint was paying for Silver’s sins.

“Wait, just _wait_!” Silver calls as Flint grabs him by the lapel.

He’s surprisingly light, Flint thinks, hauling the other man up from the floor. Then again, fear of one’s impending death has a way of strengthening a man’s constitution. Flint takes two steps, turning them both in a half-circle as he slams Silver into the nearest bulkhead. As Silver grunts, the wind knocked out of him, Flint presses forward to pin him against the wall.

Taking the pistol from his waistband, Flint presses it to Silver’s temple.

Silver stills, eyes wide.

“Flint, stop--”

“You shit!"

“ _Wait_ ,” Silver begs, using the same consolatory tone he’d had on deck. Like he might be able to talk his way out of this, as he had before.

 _Never again_.

“After everything you’ve done,” Flint hisses, “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

“Just listen, just--”

“Give me one good fucking reason,” Flint snarls.

“I can give you _twenty_ , and they’re all standing outside!”

As if on cue, the pounding against the cabin door begins anew, each hit sending the hinges of the door rattling. Silver raises his palms, pleading once more, and Flint forces the gun’s muzzle harder still against his temple. Silver winces at the pain, but doesn’t turn away.

Flint snorts. “You’re a worthless thief and a liar. Why on Earth would I ever believe a fucking thing out of your mouth?”

“You’re _confused_. You’re not thinking clearly right now. You don’t want to do anything you’ll--”

“You’re stalling.”

“ _Of_ _course_ I’m fucking stalling!”

Flint leans back in surprise, though he doesn’t lower the pistol. Silver drops his hands, offering quietly, “I’m trying to keep you from putting a bullet in my skull, _yes_ , but I also want to help you. _”_

“I don’t know how you managed this, how you’ve rallied the men against me so quickly.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Where’s _Gates_?”

Silver’s eyes narrow. “ _Christ_. You really don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember _what?_ ”

“He’s _dead_ , Flint.”

“That’s… that’s impossible.”

Silver shakes his head. “ _No_ , listen to me. You were injured.”

“You’re lying, that’s--”

“We were ambushed by the British outside of Saint Kitts two days ago. You were struck by debris during the battle. You’ve been unconscious since it happened. Howell wasn’t even sure if you were going to, if you were--” he stops, as if he can’t bring himself to say the rest. He swallows. “You have to _trust_ me.”

It’s insanity, the words coming out of Silver’s mouth. His lies have always been too easy, too quick. If Flint can just have a moment, just make the pounding in his head stop for one single moment, he’ll be able to think clearly. To see through Silver’s falsehoods, his endless deceptions.

“ _No_ ,” Flint says, cocking the pistol.

Something heavy strikes the door, shaking the wooden frame. There are only seconds left, a few minutes at best. He will not be captured alive. Singleton may be dead, but he isn't the only man aboard with a proclivity for torture. If this ends tonight, then it ends on Flint’s terms, his—

“ _James_ , please.”

Flint freezes, Silver’s voice echoing through his head.

Flint should pull the trigger—end Silver’s lies once and for all. End this _game_. No man on his crew had ever called him that. Was _allowed_ to call him that. Not even Gates, in all their years together as Captain and Quartermaster. It had never been their right, to know him so well. And it certainly wasn’t _Silver’s_.

Flint closes his eyes, trying to make the drumming stop.

_He refuses to stand on ceremony, insists on the familiar._

“I know this doesn’t make any sense,” Silver begs, his voice rising above Flint's muddled thoughts, “but you need to let me stop what’s about to happen.”

“No,” Flint shakes his head, his gut roiling. He just needs to clear his mind, to think property. They’re going to kill him. They’re going to…

“I won’t let them.”

Flint glances up, eyes locking on Silver. He hadn’t realized he was speaking aloud, but the way Silver looks at him now, the sincerity in his gaze, makes Flint hesitate.

“What's the last thing you remember?” Silver asks.

The words take Flint aback.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a simple question.”

The buzzing in Flint’s head intensifies. Louder than his heartbeat; louder than Silver’s strained breathing. _Of course_ he remembers, there’s no reason he shouldn’t. The gold, it was the only thing that mattered. The gold and…

_Something else._

“The _Urca_ ,” he finally murmurs, allowing himself to be drawn into Silver’s web. “We set out for Division Bay. That was… that was where the schedule indicated we’d find it.”

“And after?”

Flint’s gaze narrows.

“ _After_?”

Silver glances downward, closing his eyes a moment.

Flint laughs, the realization sinking into his chest. “Was it another lie? Is that it? The location you provided, just as false as the rest of your words? What did you promise them, to incite this mutiny? More shares of the prize? A captaincy for yourself?” He leans forward, pressing the pistol once again to Silver’s temple. “What fool would ever follow you?”

Silver’s eyes dart upward, a flash of darkness in his gaze that Flint’s never seen before. Wouldn’t have thought possible, during their early encounters. Silver had been snakeoil and smiles bound in a pretty package then, but it had never fooled Flint. This, however. This was… this was something _other_.

Silver straightens, straining against the hand that keeps him pinned. It takes all of Flint’s strength just to hold him back.

“You _killed_ him.”

Flint narrows his eyes. “What?”

“You want to know what happened to Gates? _You_ _killed_ _him_. Snapped his neck in this very room. He betrayed you, so you murdered him as recompense.”

The pounding in Flint’s head increases. 

“No, I… I wouldn’t…”

“I found you with him shortly after, cradling his body. You killed your friend because it was _convenient_.”

“That’s… that’s not what happened. I wouldn’t…”

“We found the _Urca_ ,” Silver whispers. “We _found_ _the_ _gold_. You got everything you ever wanted, and now you’re about to piss it all away. Two years have passed, Flint. _Two_ _years_ since we set off for the _Urca_. Two years since your war began.”

Silver presses closer, unafraid of the pistol still pointed at his head. Unafraid of _Flint_.

It’s only then that Flint looks down. The buzzing in his head ceases—torn away by the shock of what he’s seeing. What he’s _not_ seeing. He takes a step back, then two, but Silver only follows, his metal leg _thumbing_ hard against the planks.

“You might not remember the _sacrifices_ we’ve all made,” Silver spits, maneuvering around Flint, “but I do. _Every_ _fucking_ _day_. Now get out of my way so I can save your goddamn life.”

Flint doesn’t quite know why he lowers his gun, or why he moves out of Silver’s way. Why any of this makes sense.

Why he _believes_ him.

He watches Silver cross the cabin, his false leg scrapping against the wood as he limps forward, inch by agonizing inch. When he stops at the door, he presses both of his hands against the wood, timing his shouts against the monotonous beat of the battering ram. He yells once, _twice_. The pounding finally ceases upon the third, and Silver leans hard against the door with a sigh.

“I’m going to open the door now, and I need everyone to stand down.”

There’s a murmur outside—a chorus of voices that must lead down the entire corridor. An army of men, come to save John Silver, of all people. When he receives no reply, Silver slams a curled fist against the door. “ _Am_ _I_ _understood_?”

The resistance grows quiet.

Bending, Silver pulls back the bolt near the floor, then stretches upward, releasing the lock on the top. Flint expects a mass of bodies to flow through once the door is opened, arms at the ready, but somehow Silver’s command is heeded. Silver steps out, straddling the threshold as he does so. Flint can’t help but notice the way his body fully blocks every inch of the entrance, his shoulders straightening.

Flint remains in place, waiting for Silver to move, to let the men tear him to pieces. Seconds pass, but Silver never so much as steps past the doorframe as he addresses the crowd, a dozen voices strong. One after the other, Silver reassures the men, then the entire group, his familiar cadence now marked by a strange, unbridled authority.

“As you’re all aware, Captain Flint’s wounds were very serious. Upon waking this afternoon, he found himself a touch confused, as any man would be, given such a grievous injury to the head. Fortunately, he’s come back to his senses, and there’s nothing more to be alarmed about. He’s fine; and I am as well, thank you for your concern. You may resume your duties.” When it looks as if the men are about to protest once more, Silver raises a palm. “And for those of you who just returned from supper, well, you may consider this my gift to you. Dinner _and_ a show, one night only on the _Walrus_ mainstage. Whoever says pirates have no class?”

The worried clamor slowly transforms into laughter as the tension is undeniably broken.

As Silver ushers them away, a few men dip their heads to and fro, trying to get a better look into the cabin. When they notice Flint, pistol still in hand, he straightens and nods back in their direction, as if he has any real idea who they are. Their eyes widen at the attention, but they flee in quick succession as Silver clears his throat. With the corridor now glaringly empty, Silver takes Joji’s elbow, holding him back a moment to murmur something in his ear. Joji nods and turns away, leaving Silver to steps back inside.

Flint fidgets in the silence, his mind a whirlwind of confusion.

_Silver controls his men._

_Silver._

When Silver shuts the door, he makes a beeline for a chair sitting next to the work table. He barely makes the last step, catching himself against the curved top rail as he slumps heavily atop the seat.

_Or whatever remains of it._

Clutching at his left knee, Silver makes quick work of unbuckling the straps that wrap around his upper thigh. With a hiss, he drags the stump out of the boot and unwraps it, examining the damage beneath. Flint can’t help but stare.

“It’s looked worse,” Silver offers, shifting his leg to check the other side. The skin is raw and irritated—likely from Flint’s impromptu puppetry—but there’s no bleeding, as far as Flint can tell. When Flint doesn’t respond, Silver glances up, watching him a long moment as he re-wraps the stump. “Are you alright?”

His voice is strained with pain, yet his eyes bore into Flint, flitting over him as if cataloging every wound, every scar. Flint doesn’t know the man who sits before him. He’s certainly not the man who once sat in Eleanor’s office, spewing falsehoods and fables in the hopes of gaining his freedom. 

_We might be friends by then._

Flint swallows, the cabin closing in around him.

“It’s true?” he asks. “It’s all… I killed him?”

Silver nods, though not unkindly. “Yes.”

“ _How_ can it be true? How can--”

“A lot has happened and I will explain everything, I swear to you, but you need to sit down. Howell will be here soon.”

Flint steps toward the cot, his legs growing increasingly shakier. Silver watches him cautiously, eyes half on Flint, half on the pistol still clutched in his hand. Flint stares down at it a long moment, then sets it on the table before Silver. He’s already put his life in Silver’s hands tonight.

 _Once more unto the breach_ _._

Flint manages to make it to the cot before he stumbles, his stomach roiling as he sits. His fingers clutch at the edge of the mattress.

 _Jesus_.

How can he _not_ _remember?_

The rumbling noise in his head crescendos, now bringing with it a pulsing pain that renders him speechless. _How can he not remember? He needs to remember. He has to remember. It can’t be true, the things he’s done. He can’t remember, he can’t—_

His stomach churns again and the taste of bile fills his mouth. Flint tips forward, but a hand catches him, keeps him from falling. An empty pitcher is placed in his lap and he vomits whatever liquid is left in his belly.

_Why can’t he remember?_

He chokes at the taste of ash in his mouth.

_What has he done?_

Someone is talking to him— _Silver_ is talking to him—and Flint can’t understand him. Can only feel the steady pressure of Silver’s hand on his neck as he guides him down onto his side. He obeys the touch, can’t seem to stop himself, even if he’d wanted to. The lantern light is too bright, and Flint squeezes his eyes shut, narrowing the world around him as his body curls upon the mattress.

Silver is still talking to him, calling his name.

He lets the darkness take him.

* * *

It’s night when Flint awakes again.

A lantern over his cot glows faintly, the flame dancing precariously as the candle runs too low to sustain its flame. All is quiet above on the quarterdeck—or as quiet as any ship can be in calm waters. Every minute or so he hears the footfalls of the watch performing their rounds. _It must be Ainsley_ , Flint thinks drowsily. _Always stomping as he walks. Dragging his feet like Banquo’s ghost._

He swallows, though the taste of blood is gone.

He’s back in his cot, as if he never left it at all. The drumming in his head has quieted, if not completely settled, but his body still bears the weight of an exhaustion so strong he’s not certain he could sit up, even if he wanted to. There’s no question he won’t be able to leave the cabin on his own. Not that he has anywhere to go, of course, surrounded by a crew he no longer commands with full authority.

_Had he ever?_

He had always relied on Gates to maintain order, to maintain _loyalty_ , so long as he provided the prizes. And now he finds himself with neither. Powerless and weak, and utterly lost. Without his full memories. Without a quartermaster to depend on.

_Or, at least, a quartermaster of his choosing._

Flint turns his head.

A chair has been pulled up next to his cot, Silver’s dark outline hunched forward as he sits, his thighs spread wide to keep himself balanced. With the way Silver’s elbows are set against his knees and his hands are clenched before him, Flint would almost think him praying, had he believed Silver to be a religious man. Given the tenseness of Silver's shoulders, however, Flint suspects it’s likely spite, more so than the Holy Spirit, actually keeping the other man in his chair. Although Silver’s head is bent low, his face hidden from view by a shroud of curly hair, Flint suspects he’s awake, if not quite present.

_Adrift in a sea of memories._

Flint studies Silver for a time, the _Walrus_ quiet around them.

As the footfalls above continue their meandering route, and the bells on deck ring out softly to usher in another late hour, it’s only then that the lantern’s candlelight finally flickers out, draping the cabin in argent moonlight.

When all that’s left to see is Silver’s vigilant shadow, Flint finally closes his eyes.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Flint spends the next day in his cabin.

_His cage._

The word _prisoner_ has not been uttered, but Flint feels the chains of confinement—invisible but ever present—all the same. When he’s escorted onto deck for a late-morning walk, only after Silver himself issues the order, Flint’s exodus feels more like a temporary reprieve than a simple request for fresh air. He’s not a free man; not really.

He sees it in the way Joji trails him on the quarterdeck, or how the men, many of whom he’s known for years, can't now seem to meet his eyes. For those whose faces he doesn’t recall, he’s treated like a plague made flesh. They scatter to avoid him, tripping over themselves as they offer him a wide berth anytime he passes. Even when Flint tries to speak to the men, De Groot quickly intercepts, shooing the sailors away from him with all the subtlety of an irritable broad hen.

Above all else, he sees it in the way Silver watches his every move with furtive glances, but still refuses to approach.

Given the way Flint had acted that morning, he doesn’t necessarily blame the other man’s reluctance.

Flint had woken early, the remnants of a nightmare still clinging to his mind as he’d bolted upright in his cot, his headache raging full force. Silver had been upon him instantly, trying to find out what was wrong. When Flint hadn’t answered, the agony too deep to speak, Silver had rushed to the door and called for one of the men to fetch Howell. He’d proceeded to hover over Flint for the next several minutes until the doctor had finally arrived.

Growing frustrated by the familiar prognosis of more bed-rest, and ignoring both Howell and Silver’s pleas, Flint had made the mistake of attempting to stand. He'd been up no more than a few seconds when his vision whited out, causing him to sway violently. He’d stumbled into Silver, who’d taken Flint’s elbow to steady him. It had irked Flint, the way Silver had been watching him. _Touching_ _him_. Like he was some broken thing to be fixed and coddled, but not respected.

He’d tried to pull away, only to find Silver’s grip tighten all the more.

“Flint--"

“I’m not an _invalid_ ,” he’d snarled, brushing off Silver’s hands. “I don’t need your help.”

Silver hadn’t stayed long after that.

After Flint had finally returned to his cot, Howell had taken to mixing a tonic for his headache—the soft scrape of his mortar and pestle the only sounds for several minutes. The mixing had gone on a touch longer than Flint deemed necessary, the noise grating at his ears, though he suspected it may have been intentional. The pain had eased somewhat by the time Howell had finished the concoction. Knowing that any new complaints would get him nowhere, Flint had taken the drink without fuss, swallowing back the bitter taste as he’d passed the glass back to Howell.

The doctor had hesitated then, a bit too long to be natural, and Flint had glared.

“If you’re going to say something, just say it.”

“He’s only trying to help you.”

Howell had turned away, his back to Flint as he repacked his satchel.

Flint had sighed, staring down at the familiar calluses on his palm. He hadn’t been trying to pick a fight, not really. “How did it happen?”

“Hm?”

“Silver. His _leg_ , I mean. How did it happen?”

“That’s not my story to tell, I’m afraid,” Howell had offered. When he did turn back to Flint, he’d frowned as he considered his next words. “What I can say, you won’t like to hear. Not in your present state, anyway.”

Howell had been a _Walrus_ man for years. He’d been one of the first men Flint had poached from another crew when he’d gained his captaincy, and though they weren’t close, not exactly, he’d learned quickly enough that Howell was worth listening to.

“Why is that?”

“I can’t pretend to know what either of you are thinking at any given time. It’s a fool’s errand at best, trust me on that. But after the amputation, Silver languished with fever. When he did wake, it was only to stare at nothing for hours on end, unaware of anything around him. After two days of this, as the fever grew worse, you appeared in the surgery with two of the men and a pallet, and you took Silver to your cabin. He stayed for three days, and woke on the fourth. When I asked you why you’d done it, you said it was because the men needed him. But I believe that was only one of two truths.”

“And the other?”

“Some days I’m still trying to figure that out.”

After the doctor had taken his leave, Flint had slept for a time, waking later that morning to find an empty cabin. Howell had continued to check on him every few hours after that, poking and pinching at Flint like some bastard barber surgeon. For as much as he grew to loath their visits, Flint supposed he was glad to find that not everyone had changed.

_Only Silver, it seemed._

Hours later, when Silver had finally returned to the cabin, he’d made sure to keep his distance. He’d dutifully answered some of Flint’s questions, and avoided others cleverly enough, though Flint had let the obfuscations pass. He’d been too tired to fight—too tired to think much of anything, save the fear he’d never recover his memories.

Howell had been adamant that he shouldn’t worry just yet. _The mind is a fickle_ _thing_ , he’d said.

Flint hadn’t missed the way he’d spoken to _both_ Flint and Silver in that moment, nor how, later that afternoon, the doctor and quartermaster had been huddled together out of earshot, heatedly murmuring as Flint had walked the quarterdeck.

He knows it’s all true.

Even if he hadn’t believed Silver at first—even if it all sounded too utterly mad to be true—he’s seen enough to know it wasn’t a lie. The ship itself is different; no less the _Walrus,_ but scarred in a dozen new places. Half the men are a mystery to him, and the other half, familiar as they are, all share the same weary hollowness to their faces. They’re all hardened in ways they hadn’t been before, and they’re not alone. It had only taken one glance into a mirror to see that Flint himself wasn’t immune to the physical burdens of war. He had stared far too long at his own tired reflection before finally taking the mirror down. Even now, he still finds himself running an idle palm over the top of his skull, fascinated by the scrape of short hair.

He _feels_ different, as well, though he can’t quite explain how.

The undeniable rage he’s lived with for so long—the fury that’s burned through his rib cage every waking day for the past decade—is all but absent from him now. Tempered, it seems, into something new. Something far more dangerous: _certainty_. Certainty in a war he can’t remember instigating. Certainty in his crew. Certainty, somehow, in Silver.

When he’d been allowed on deck that afternoon, the salt air a familiar balm to his ills, he’d found his eyes drawn to Silver.

He’d watched as Silver had circumvented the ship in his maimed state, the circumstances of which he’s still yet to share. Watched as he’d spoken with the men, as though they’d all been long-acquainted. Watched how he issued orders like a man who’d spent his entire life at sea. It’s all a ruse, of course, or mostly so. Flint had figured that out fairly quickly. Not that Silver is necessarily bad at it, or ill trained. He’s clearly learning. The men themselves don’t even seem to notice when Silver slips up—don’t notice when his eyes dart to De Groot for a moment too long, seeking backup. 

When Howell ushers Flint back inside sometime later, worried that the choppy waters will cause him to fall, Flint allows it for no other reason save the fact that he’s grown increasingly queasy and refuses to let the men see him heave atop his own quarterdeck.

He spends his time browsing his own cabin, a stranger to himself. Many of his personal items are still there, which provides some measure of comfort. His books; his curated collection of maps and natural chart; his favorite gunbelt. All intermixed with unfamiliar tomes and clothing he doesn’t remember obtaining, nor ever wearing. He tries on a dark leather coat that hangs from his chair, examining the fine stitching along the lapel. It fits him well enough, though it clearly wasn’t made for him, given the tightness around the shoulders. Still, he keeps it on. Maintaining appearances can be half the battle when it comes to projecting authority.

Plus, he simply _likes_ it. There’s certainly no crime in that.

Flint settles behind his desk for a time, half-engrossed by an unfamiliar book he’s dragged from his shelf. There a sharp knock on the door, and Flint looks up. Silver doesn’t hesitate to enter though, doesn’t wait for his Captain’s command. The hollow _thump_ of his metal leg resonates like an omen.

There’s a bowl in Silver’s hand, steam curling around a wooden spoon that leans precariously over the lip. Whatever it is, the hearty smell makes Flint's stomach rumble.

“Come to poison me?” he asks, setting the book down.

Silver pauses. “Pardon?”

“Your cooking needed work, last I recall.”

Silver actually smiles at that—the first Flint’s seen since he woke yesterday.

“ _Ah_. Well, thankfully for your bowels, I’ve been demoted as the ship’s cook for some time now.” 

“I’m sure Muldoon was relieved to hear it.”

Silver’s face falls.

 _Oh_.

Flint has seen that look before. On Silver; on the other men. Every time he’s inquired about the whereabouts of someone not present, they make the same pained expression before explaining another death, another funeral. Flint has learned to simply stop asking.

“We have a new cook, actually,” Silver offers, deftly changing the subject. “He prefers a bit too much salt for my taste, but it’s passable. Sometimes even good, when he’s had a few drinks in him. It’s just lamb stew tonight, but the meat is fresh.”

Silver places the bowl before Flint. “I see you found your coat. You must be feeling better.”

“Well enough.”

“You really should be wearing the poultice Howell gave you, it’ll help with the headaches.”

“It smells like festered horse shit.”

Silver sighs, retreating to the work table. As he spreads a large map over the surface, Flint slowly sirs the stew. When he finally takes a bite it’s just as Silver described—far too much salt for any one man—but he’s had worse. He’s barely eaten today, his nausea ever fickle, but he finds himself too famished to resist. If Silver really _is_ going to poison him, at least he'll get a last meal out of it.

When he’s finished some moments later, Flint pushes the bowl aside.

“Am I a prisoner?”

Silver turns sharply. “What?”

“You seem intent on sequestering me away from the men; from my own _ship_. You claim we’re working together for a common goal, yet you’ve posted two guards outside my door.”

“They’re--”

“For my protection?”

Silver pinches the bridge of his nose. “Flint--”

“Yours?”

Silver glares at him, struggling for words as he clutches at the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white.

Flint has only gotten a piecemeal explanation of their situation, the details followed by another round of whispered debate between Howell and Silver. There had seemed to be some disagreement earlier regarding how much _shock_ Flint’s mind could handle. As if living in a world of secrets was any _easier_. He knows they’re lying to him, but about what, and to what _extent_ , he hasn’t been able to discern.

“I told you earlier,” Silver offers patiently, “we don’t need to burden the men with things they can’t control. If they knew you were incapacitated, it would sow too much doubt. They need to stay focused.”

“On the war?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Perhaps we should discuss again the details of this so-called _war_.”

Silver sighs.

“We’ve talked about this, Flint. Howell doesn’t think it’s good to--”

“Inundate me with the truth?”

“I’ve _told_ you the truth.”

“So you say,” Flint counters.

_Whose truth, exactly?_

Silver glances away. “There are things the men don’t need to know at the present moment. When the time is right--”

“You’ll allocate information to them like they’re children?"

Silver huffs. “That’s unbelievably ironic, coming from you. _A healthy ship requires trust_ …”

Flint glowers. “I did what was necessary.”

“ _As_ _have I._ ”

They scowl at one another a long moment, the lantern over Silver’s head swaying back and forth.

When Silver turns back to the table, Flint feels a sense of melancholy he can’t explain.

Silver had told him about Nassau’s new Governor, about the Maroon alliance. The fear Flint had instilled upon their enemies after Charles Town. He’d answered Flint’s questions with meticulous simplicity—with meticulous planning—and yet every word out of Silver’s month had felt like an invention far too extraordinary to believe. Simultaneous truths and un-truths, doled out to keep Flint complacent. And yet… Gates is dead. Gates is dead, and the _Urca_ gold has been claimed. Miles to the north, Nassau Town and the entirety of the West Indies alongside it sits on the cusp of anarchy. Of _freedom_. 

Silver had always been a cunning liar, but Howell was not, nor De Groot. When cornered earlier, Dooley had all but confirmed Flint’s suspicions that Silver was stationing guards outside his door, though he’d insisted it was only to make sure Flint was looked after, should a medical issue arise in the night.

_A medical issue my arse._

Even if he’s foolish enough to not trust the evidence before his eyes, Flint finds himself reluctant to reveal this to Silver. Although he can’t explain his new partnership, even to himself, Flint has used others like this before. Allies that had served their purpose—until they hadn’t. Silver wouldn’t be the first, nor the last, Flint was certain.

And yet, now it mattered more than ever.

Who could he trust?

Certainly not Silver. 

_It’s not in your nature to trust,_ Miranda had told him once.

 _I trust you_ , he’d replied back, the taste of brandy still strong on his lips. Sometimes—most times if he were honest—drink had facilitated their only means of real communication in those early days on Nassau. Early _years_. It was the only way they’d ever felt free enough to talk as they once had, to speak of their past selves, their past lives.

She’d smiled back at him, setting aside her glass to gently stroke his cheek. _You love me, James. The two aren’t mutually exclusive._

_So, you’re saying I love you, but do not trust you?_

_I’m saying, you trust those you love. And you love like no other. In some ways, you go against your very nature. It’s a dangerous thing, trust._

She’d been right then, just as she’d always been. And now, in this perilous moment, he needs her clarity more than ever.

_Tell me who to trust, Miranda. Tell me this nightmare isn’t true._

Unaware of Flint’s ruminations, Silver continues sorting through the ledgers before him. When he finds the tome he seems most interested in, he flips it open a few pages and slides a fingertip searchingly down the middle, then leans forward, arms braced against the table.

Flint watches Silver a long moment, then finally clears his throat.

“When will we return to Nassau?”

Silver shrugs faintly, but doesn’t turn.

“A few more weeks.”

“Our allies know of this delay?”

“I’ve sent word. I don’t imagine Billy will be happy about it, but the circumstances are fairly extenuating.”

 _Billy_.

Of all the things Silver had told him, knowing the former bosun was alive and well—and apparently leading an inner-island insurgence against Nassau’s new Governor—had been one of the more egregious truths peddled that day. Still, knowing they had allies on the island, as well as the fact that Woodes hadn’t razed the surrounding homesteads, provided a measure of small comfort to Flint. As long as Miranda had kept her head down, and her affiliation with him to a minimum, she was safer than most. 

“Perhaps we could move up our plans? You said they wait for our word. We could--”

Silver finally turns, exasperated.

“Fight a battle no one is ready for? With a captain who wouldn’t know friend from foe? Should I go on?”

“Perhaps I might be able to get a message through then.”

“To _whom_ exactly?”

Flint’s jaw clenches. “That’s none of your concern.”

“None of my concern? _Jesus Christ_. It had better bloody well _be_ my concern, as you seem intent on trying to end this war before it starts.”

“That’s not… that’s not what I said.”

“One wrong move now, _one_ _slip_ , and this all goes away. Why on Earth you’d want to risk that now, for a single message, I just can’t…” Silver trails off, his frustration suddenly fading. He turns, his back to Flint once more. He begins to shuffle at the papers on the table before him, but there seems to be no real intent to his movements, save to distract himself from Flint.

 _Coward_.

“Is it so easy for you then?” Flint accuses. “To abandon our home?”

“And rushing back to get slaughtered is the better solution?”

“It must be so easy, thinking only of oneself.”

Silver’s shoulders stiffen.

“Goddammit, Flint--"

“Nassau is my _home_ , there are people there…” He pauses, glancing away. “There are people there that I care about.”

The papers go silent.

“Perhaps loyalty means nothing to you, Mr. Silver, but it does to me. I’ve made promises to those I care about. To provide for them a better life—a better _future_. If you believe in this cause, as you so claim to, then I cannot fathom why you would hesitate to return.”

“Promises aren’t enough,” Silver murmurs. 

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. It’s… it’s nothing.” Silver turns, his shoulders still weighted by weariness. “I don’t wish to fight with you about this. _Sincerely_. Once we get through the next few days, if you still want to send a message, I will do everything in my power to make it happen. Until that time, however, we must stay the course that you’ve set us upon. We _will_ reclaim Nassau, but not at the expense of our lives. This reprieve is a necessary evil.”

Rage tugs at Flint’s breast, vicious and familiar, but the weariness in Silver’s tone—the sincerity—drains his anger like a sieve. Against his better judgement, Flint nods.

“Thank you.”

Silver’s eyebrows raise, as if surprised, or pleased. _Or_ _both_. He nods cautiously back, then slowly limps his way to the door. He hesitates at the threshold, his fingers wrapped around the door handle. He glances over his shoulder at Flint.

“Contrary to what you might think, you are not a prisoner. The _Walrus_ is your ship—as it’s always been. As it _should_ be. If you wish to join me on deck in the morning, I know the men would welcome your presence.”

“And you?” Flint asks. “Would you welcome my presence?”

“Well, I suppose that depends.”

“On?”

Silver shrugs. “On whether or not you plan on holding a knife to my throat again.”

Flint leans back, crossing his arms. He refuses to smile, though it’s a near thing.

“I suppose I could refrain—this once.”

Silver nods. “Then I’ll see you in the morning.”

When Silver tugs open the door, Flint calls out, stopping him in his tracks. 

“Why didn’t you leave?”

“Pardon?”

Flint clears his throat, refusing to look away. “When the chance came, when the _Urca_ gold was ours, didn’t you take your share and leave?”

Silver turns slowly, his profile bathed in candlelight.

“Sometimes I wonder that myself,” he answers truthfully, though there’s a faint curve to his lips as he finishes. He nods once, then steps into the hallway. “Goodnight, Captain.”

* * *

As promised, the men don’t prevent Flint from leaving the cabin the next morning.

Although he’s spent most of the day on deck, helping with overseeing the repairs, he welcomes the exhaustion if it means being useful again. The foremast has been refortified, and the main topgallant sail replaced in record time. If they're lucky, they'll finish with patching the stern's railing just before the storm hits later that evening. I'll be an ugly fix, he knows, the wood mismatched and unpolished, but the _Walrus_ has never required resplendent parts to show her worth in times of war.

When the men finally break for supper, Flint stands on the quarterdeck watching the darkening horizon through a spyglass.

The rain clouds have crept closer since he last looked, stretching like a strip of gray ribbon across the sky. The worst of the squall is still several miles out, but he can already feel the winds shifting around them. Flint frowns, lowering the glass. They’ve drifted south today, limping along the coastline of a rocky outcropping made of carmine sandstone. It’s only now, as the currents carry them deeper inland, that Flint realizes why they're so familiar.

“Is that the Red Isle?” Flint asks, catching De Groot’s attention in passing.

The older man stops, squinting at the distant shoreline. “Good eye. It’s hard to tell from this vantage point, but the rocks are darker on this side due to the erosion.”

_If they’re passing the Red Isle, it means…_

Flint swears to himself.

“Why are we going to Antigua?”

De Groot leans against the railing, looking out onto the water.

“A resupply.”

“We can get supplies anywhere, why _here_?”

De Groot shrugs. “Different supplies.”

_Fuck._

“McCreery?"

“Unfortunately."

Raindrops land against the back of Flint’s exposed neck, sliding past his collar.

 _"Christ._ How long has this meeting been planned?”

“Some weeks back. We should have arrived four days ago, but the ambush set us off course.”

Flint sighs, as more raindrops splatter on the deck between them.

“Are the stores really that bad?”

“We were already in need of cannons, and now we’ve lost our long nine. At least a dozen kegs of powder were ruined in the flooding, to say nothing about our dwindling supply of small arms. We don’t have a choice.”

“This is not a good idea,” Flint murmurs, his grip tightening on the railing.

“Aye, Captain. But it’s yours.”

* * *

Flint’s march to his cabin is met with more rain as the storm finally hits in earnest.

His headache has returned in force, the left side of his skull encased in a dull ache that no potion or pill from Howell has yet to remedy. Of course, talk of Antigua has only made it worse. Antigua always makes things worse.

_Fucking Antigua._

So preoccupied with his thoughts, Flint had not taken into consideration that his cabin may already be occupied. Silver had disappeared some time ago, and though Flint isn’t surprised to find the other man making use of his quarters without him, he certainly hadn’t expected to walk in on Silver in such a… such a…

_Bare state._

Flint freezes mid-stride.

Silver stands naked before Flint's work table, his back to the door as he runs a washcloth across his left shoulder blade.

Silver has never been a large man, but here, in this moment, Flint sees every hardened line of him, every muscle toughened by the strain of walking with his false leg. His long hair is tied up, messy but contained, with only a few dark strands slipping free to curl against the nape of his neck. As he runs the cloth along his collarbone, then back down against his right shoulder, a trio of water droplets slide down the curve of his spine. 

Nothing in his posture indicates he’d started by Flint’s sudden appearance, nor particularly embarrassed by the intrusion. Not that any of them expected such privacy aboard the _Walrus_ , the luxury of discretion rarely afforded at sea. Still, when Silver shifts, his body turning in Flint’s direction, all Flint can see is the way the muscles in his back flex with the motion, the way his toned torso tapers down to…

Flint pulls his eyes away.

_Christ._

“Well, shut the door,” Silver says, wringing out the washcloth.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t…” Flint takes a measured breath, drawing in the scent of lye and lemon balm. “Why exactly are you naked in my cabin?”

Silver drops the washcloth into a basin on the table. He pauses, for the first time appearing bashful by his stat of dress. “Oh, you…” He grimaces. “You allow me the use of your cabin. For privacy.”

“Privacy?”

“The men tend to… well, they tend to _stare_. At my leg. I don’t think they mean to, but their curiosity gets the better of them. Our eyes are always drawn to nature’s aberrations.” He swallows, looking away. “If you’re bothered by it, I’ll go. I only need a moment to--”

“-- _no_ ,” Flint interrupts. “No. I’m not… I’m not bothered by it.”

Silver shifts in uncertainty, and Flint tries not to stare himself, though he finds it nearly impossible to keep his eyes off the mess of Silver’s injured limb. There’s some scarring above the amputation, just above where the leather straps of his prosthesis meets his skin. Flint had seen the full extent of the damage the night before last, but this is different somehow. It’s terrifying, how delicate the flesh can be, but yet somehow still beautiful all the same. 

“How did it happen?”

Flint realizes he’s asked the question before he’s thought it through, and the words hang in the air. “I’m sorry, if that was too forthcoming--"

“It’s fine,” Silver answers. “You were there, after all. Or soon after, at any rate.”

“Was it my fault?”

Silver seems surprised at the question, and Flint can’t quite read the expression on his face. “No, it wasn’t your fault.”

“It happened in Charles Town?”

Silver had told him about Charles Town. About how Vane’s men had ambushed the _Walrus_ while Flint and Vane had been in the city, negotiating a ransom for the Governor’s only daughter. Flint had assumed, perhaps erroneously, that Silver had been injured at some point during the battle, just prior to the attack on the city. He’d been forthcoming about all other details of the battle, except his own injury. 

Silver turns away.

“Yes. I remember very little of the fighting, though. By the time Charles Town was under siege, I was drowning in a haze of laudanum.”

“Howell said you recovered in my cabin.”

Silver pauses. “Did he now?”

“Why would I do that?”

“The men had just elected me their new quartermaster. Keeping me alive for their sake benefited you, I suppose.”

“Is that the truth?”

“Perhaps.” Silver shrugs. “Perhaps you simply felt pity for me.”

Flint doubts such an accusation has any merit—he’s not been known for his abundance of pity after taking on the mantle of Captain Flint. Pity was reserved for broken things; for helpless things. Silver has never been that, even when they’d met. Even now.

Flint swallows, running a hand along his neck. “What I said yesterday, when I woke, I’m sorry. It was an ill turn of phrase, nothing more.”

“There’s no need to apologize for seeing the truth of what I am. My limitations are--”

“--strengths.” Flint glances down, unable to meet Silver’s eyes for some reason. “The men clearly respect you. They listen to you. Beyond it all, they… they _like_ you. Your infirmity has only made you stronger in their eyes. I might not remember how or why, but I’ve seen enough to understand that.”

Silver watches him carefully, as if waiting for some trickery on Flint’s part. When he seems to detect Flint’s sincerity, he shifts awkwardly, finally remembering his state of undress.

“This is all very touching,” Silver offers, reaching for the clothing folded up on the table, “but if we’re going to continue this conversation, I’d prefer to be wearing trousers.”

As Silver sits to dress himself, Flint finds himself lurking in front of the bookshelf, leafing through the pages of a book of French poetry. He’d explored the room numerous times, hours spent with nothing to do but scrutinize his own life, seeking in his past some semblance of present clarity. There’s a thin strip of sail cloth marking a page toward the back, and Flint runs his thumb over the frayed material. He could pick up nearly any book on the shelf and find something similar—piecemeal bookmarks, made of scraps of paper or pieces of twine. There’s a pressed mint leaf in _Paradise_ _Lost_ ; four more scattered about _Histories_. When he’d perused his copy of _The_ _Prince_ that morning, mindlessly riffling through the chapters, he’d found a copper Moroccan coin tucked safely between the yellowed pages.

None of the tokens are his, Flint knows.

He’s never required a bookmark to remember any particular page, nor felt the urge to flit between novels, too invested in the potential of the next story to actively focus on what was before him. Flint had no need for sail cloth; no need to hold his place. And yet someone clearly had. Odder still, Flint had _let_ them.

Somehow, in the nearly two years that have passed since they set out for the _Urca_ , Flint has grown to not only trust Silver with his life, it seems, but to trust Silver with his _books_. His most prized possessions, handed over to a thief.

Flint slides the book back into the shelf, and turns slowly, pacing around his desk. There’s a stack of logs on top, leather-bound and worn with age. He runs his fingertips down the spines, then up again, noting the dates. He’d read through them already, his own handwriting detailing the ship’s daily rigmarole of the past several years. It was not meant as a personal log, though there are private notes conveying the smallest details of his time with Silver these past two years, though nothing to indicate why he would place so much trust in the hands of an insignificant man.

Flint has spent hours debating with himself about why Silver hasn't left. Over that time, he's come to the conclusion that perhaps _he_ has been the one lying. Using Silver in some unseen way, bating him into keeping the peace by offering, what exactly? Validation? A reward worth more than gold? There's no logical sense to it, though he's left with little choice in the matter. All he can do now is try to keep Silver at bay until he can remember—or at least until he he can reach Miranda.

There's nobody else he can trust, save her. The only person not somehow entangled in Silver's lies.

“Flint?”

Silver’s voice startles him out of his reverie, and he jerks his hand away from the logs.

“You rushed in here for a reason,” Silver continues, growing wary. “Are you unwell? Do you need me to get Howell?”

“ _No_! No, I mean, I’m fine.”

Flint turns, watching as Silver drags a loose shirt over his head. A button near the collar catches against the hair along his temple and Silver mutters a quiet curse, working to untangle himself. There’s a ring of dark bruising along his throat and upper collarbone, no doubt from the way Flint had handled him two days ago. Flint hadn’t noticed before now. He doesn’t know why that thought troubles him so much.

He clears his throat.

“I was told you’re meeting with McCreery.”

Easing his shirt down, Silver leans back, not the least bit surprised. “Yes? And?”

“It’s not going to happen.”

Silver laughs. “You’re the one who set this meeting up. Who _vouched_ for him.”

“Maybe so, but he won’t trust you.”

“I’ll _make_ him trust me.”

“It’s not… it doesn’t work that way. McCreery is as paranoid as he is capricious. You showing up being _you_ will not work.”

“And you have a better idea?”

“I go.”

“Oh, the hell you will.”

“Why not?”

“If McCreery is half as clever as you say, he’ll know you’re lying the moment you open your mouth. You’ve been corresponding with him for months now. If just one detail is off--”

“He trusts me.”

“ _Absolutely_ _not_.”

“If you show up without me, the deal will be off. Mark my words.”

Silver glares at him, and Flint crosses his arms in defiance. After several long moments of tense blinking, Silver finally throws up his palms. “ _Christ_ , I forget you used to be this insufferable. Fine! _Fine_.”

“Then it’s settled. I’ll take a party in the morning and--”

“ _We_. We will take a party in the morning.”

“Is that wise?”

“No, it’s not fucking wise, but we don’t have a choice, do we? You and I both know that arms dealers are few and far between in this part of the world. _Particularly_ for men with a British bounty on their heads. We don’t have a choice in this. Without replenished stores, without the weaponry McCreery can provide, this war will be lost before it’s begun.”

Silver pushes himself up, using the table to balance himself as he straightens. Although he maintains a calm exterior, Flint can see the way his jaw clenches at the pressure on his leg.

“If you’re not up to this…”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Silver grits, then swallows, looking away as his voice lowers. “I’m… fine.”

 _You’re not,_ Flint thinks.

He doesn’t say it aloud.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

“Another drink?”

Flint waves off the offer, his eyes never leaving the tavern door.

It’s been over two hours since he, Joji, and Hadlee arrived, though Silver and his escort are nowhere to be found. They’d set out in two parties that morning, each an hour apart as not to arouse any suspicions. It was their names, more so than their faces, that terrorized the hearts of men in the West Indies, but it didn’t mean they were unrecognizable. Silver was particularly vulnerable to this given this leg. Separating had been a necessary evil, though now Flint regrets the decision to time their arrivals so distantly. The storm had followed the _Walrus_ inland, hitting the island just as Flint and his men had arrived in the town square. It had only grown worse in the hours since, the torrential rain showing no signs of abating.

“You seem worried.”

Flint turns, watching as McCreery takes a long pull of his drink.

The man’s blond hair is longer than it’s been in the past, down past his ears and curling at the ends. He’s always been meticulously groomed, though even this new look suits him. Most things suited McCreery. His sharp features, his rich clothing. He was taller than Flint by an odd inch or two, though a good deal thinner. Flint had never had any illusions as to why he’d been drawn to the other man at first, or why he’d struck up the first of their many… _conversations_. He’d been useful, Flint had argued to himself, each and every time he’d found his way back to Antigua in the intervening years. 

McCreery sets the drink down, waiting patiently.

There’s a mischievousness to his hazel eyes—his gaze ever-penetrating, looking for any new cracks to exploit. Flint has known him nearly a decade, give or take, and he suspects he’ll never quite gain the other man’s trust. He’s managed it better than most, of course, considering he sits next to McCreery armed but blatantly ignored by the man's own guards. Both stand at the bar some feet away, their bodies angled in Flint's direction but not close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation.

Flint takes a drink, smiling wryly.

“I’ve invested a lot in this endeavor,” he offers.

“Hmm. This endeavor, or your new partner?”

“You’re fishing, Callum.”

McCreery laughs, eyebrows raising all the more. “I only meant, I’ve never known you to care for any man’s leadership, save your own. This new partnership is… unorthodox.”

“Things change.”

“You don’t.”

“Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

“I’ve known you well enough.” He smirks, leaning forward across the table. “The last time we were together, you quite liked _my_ partnership. Amongst other things.”

His leg brushes Flint’s own under the table, and Flint makes no move to pull away. He knows they came through Antigua a year ago, after Charles Town, but he has no memory of the reception he’d received. Amicable, apparently, going by the ease in which he’s been treated thus far. Still, he’s never had any illusions. Aside from their physical relationship, McCreery had used Flint as much as Flint had used him back. An arms dealer with ties to the most feared pirate captain in the West Indies—one couldn’t pay for that kind of marketing—just as Flint had never wanted for an arsenal.

It had been beneficial, for a time, their coupling initiated only at a moment of great weakness for Flint personally. His plans in Nassau had stalled, and his relationship with Miranda had grown frigid in their exile. On the second anniversary of Thomas’s death, far from home and far from sober, Flint had found a way to fill a void that he had long forgotten existed. It had been dangerous—still _was_ dangerous—but discretion had always come easy to Flint. He’d also never found a good enough reason to stop, of course, and McCreery had clearly no qualms in sharing his time, or his bed.

“Be that as it may, my business today is in regards to a different matter.”

“Yes, yes. When Silver arrives, as you said earlier. I’ve heard rumors, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“You won’t like them.”

“I don’t like many things.”

“Men say he seeks a captaincy.”

“An ambitious goal, certainly, but not unfeasible for any sailor.”

“They say he seeks _your_ captaincy.”

Flint takes a drink, eyes never leaving the other man. There’s little concern in McCreery’s gaze. It’s not in his nature, Flint knows. Still, though his distrust toward Silver is certainly suspect, it doesn’t mean he’s wrong.

“Is that all?” 

“I’m told Long John Silver once crushed a man’s skull with his metal leg. They say he smiled as he did it. The splatter was so heavy, so far reaching, it left permanent stains upon the walls of the establishment.”

 _Jesus_.

When Flint only smiles in response, covering his surprise with false confidence, McCreery shrugs and simply offers, “I would hate to see you meet the same fate, my friend.”

 _Would you?_ Flint thinks. As he takes a long drink, considering McCreery’s words, it’s his next thought that troubles him the more: _Would Silver?_

* * *

When Silver does arrive, just before midnight and soaked to the bone, there’s already a tenseness in the air. Silver picks up on it instantly, given the way his eyes sweep between Flint and McCreery with growing wariness. They speak for only a few minutes, brief introductions followed by a plan to meet the next day to finalize their deal.

“What do you think?” Flint asks a short while later, as they make their way up to their room for the night.

The inn over the tavern is bare but clean, a welcome sight as Flint opens the door. It’s mostly dark, save a candle that’s been left burning by the innkeeper. Behind them Joji and Ainsley split off into the adjacent room across the way, as Hadlee volunteers to keep first watch in the hallway. 

“He’s t-taller than I imagined,” Silver offers, dripping rainwater onto what had once been an expensive Savonnerie rug.

Flint shuts the door, trying not to roll his eyes.

“That’s… all?”

“I d-don’t trust him, if that’s what y-you’re asking. But our h-hands are tied.”

It’s only then that Flint notices Silver is shivering. It’s been cooler than normal this time of year, though hardly anything on par with a London winter. Still, he’s not the one standing in wet clothing.

“You should sit. I’ll start a fire.”

There’s very little complaint from Silver, which makes Flint believe he’s probably feeling worse than he looks.

Silver’s new false leg scraps against the floorboards and Flint remembers when he’d first seen it that morning. Silver had been standing on deck with two legs again, his body whole for a single moment before he'd stumbled, breaking the illusion. His existing prosthesis had been modified to include a boot, providing Silver some cover for his identity during their excursion. A man limping along the docks was hardly a rarity given the danger of a life at sea. Silver had played the part well, of course, his hobbled walk now stiffer than before as he tried to maintain his balance.

Hours later, the act has clearly taken its toll.

As Silver throws his sodden overcoat over the back of a nearby chair to dry, Flint strips off his own. It’s too bulky for him, the faded tan leather utilitarian and perfectly plain. _Ordinary_ , _and unbecoming. No pirate captains here; just a simple whaler from Cornwall with his katana-carrying companion._

By the time Flint gets a low fire going, Silver has managed to free himself from his outer clothes, followed by his prosthesis. As Silver sits on the bed in his smallclothes, Flint offers him a blanket, trying not to stare at the way the damp fabric leaves little to the imagination. He’s seen Silver naked, and yet this is different, somehow; more profane. More _intimate_.

Flint turns his back to stoke the fire, grateful for the distraction.

“I thought you intended to room with Joji tonight,” Silver says lightly, using the blanket’s edge to wring out his hair. When he’s done, he drops it onto the chair.

“Joji snores.”

Silver laughs. “I don’t remember it being that bad.”

Flint stands, stretching his back as he does so. “Like a congested bull elephant. Believe me, if you want to trade with Ainsley, I’m sure he’d be more than happy to oblige.”

When he glances over, Silver is smiling, not the least bit shy of his current state of dress. A bead of water runs down his throat and Flint wonders, for a fleeting moment, what it would taste like. What would Silver say, what would Silver _do,_ were Flint to fall to his knees and catch the droplet with his tongue?

_Fuck_

“I suppose I’ll take my chances then,” Silver offers.

Flint turns from the fire, his fingers working mindlessly at the buttons on his shirt as he finishes undressing. It’s only in afterthought that he leaves his trousers on. “I suppose you will,” he says, swallowing back the lump forming in his throat.

For once, it’s Silver who looks away.

When Flint hangs his gunbelt against the headboard and slips under the top blanket, Silver stays perched on the edge of the bed a while longer, warming himself against the fire’s glow. After a few moments, Flint hears him fully undress, the bed creaking ominously as he leans forward to toss his soggy underclothing onto the chair. As Silver lies down, turning onto his side away from Flint, Flint welcomes the warmth between them. There’s little room to spare, yet they manage to avoid touching, back to back in the near darkness of the room.

Neither had offered to take the floor.

Until now, it hadn’t even occurred to Flint that one of them might.

As Flint curls himself against the edge of the bed, sleep evading him even as the minutes pass, it takes everything in him not to turn over—to catch a glimpse of Silver’s sleeping face. _Even a liar’s façade must slip sometime,_ Flint thinks, his palm brushing against the mattress.

He doesn’t turn, however.

Doesn’t do any of the things he wants to in this moment.

_Perhaps it’s best not to know._

When Flint finally sleeps, drifting off some hours later as the morning draws closer, it’s only the sound of Silver’s even breathing that finally drags him under.

* * *

The next day passes with little change to the weather. The sea is too volatile to return to the _Walrus_ , so Flint and his men remain holed up in the tavern, waiting out the storm.

They would get their weapons, as promised, though not without some sacrifices. Flint wasn’t particularly surprised at the last-minute change, though Silver had taken affront to the maneuvering. A back-end deal has been warranted, McCreery had claimed, given how dangerous it would be for his business, should anyone begin to inquire as to who was so unlawfully abiding treason.

“A guarantee,” he’d said, “after your pirate war is won, of course.”

“It’s _extortion_ ,” Silver had spat back.

“I see it as interest owed.”

Flint had accepted the deal, a few caveats of his own to ease the blow to their existing funds. Silver had been livid at Flint’s unilateral decision, but he’d bitten his tongue, recognizing how limited their options truly were.

The rain had helped no one’s mood, and after a dinner of cold cod stew and stale bread, they’d been forced to spend another evening in the chaos of the tavern. McCreery had retreated some time ago, leaving Flint to the privacy of his nook so he could nurse his ale in peace. Silver had barely spoken to him since they’d settled their agreement, shooting any number of dark looks toward McCreery as the day had progressed. Not that McCreery had been any more virtuous. He’d taken a near instant dislike to Silver when the other man had first appeared, squelching his way through the tavern like Proteus spit from the sea itself.

Their initial conversation had devolved quickly into droll, negativistic barbs, and it hadn’t progressed from there. Even at supper Flint had taken to sitting between the two of them just so they might avoid any _actual_ knives being thrown. Now Silver sits across the room with Joji and Ainsley, playing a seemingly endless round of cards. Wherever Hadlee has gone, Flint can't say for certain, though he’d noticed the man eyeing the whores at the brothel next door earlier, and there had been little interest shown in his guard duties since. There will be reprimands for desertion, Flint promises himself, once they get out of this godforsaken port. 

Flint stares down at the table, running the day through his head. He’s annoyed by Silver’s childish avoidance, to say the least. But at the same time he also finds himself bothered by the fact that Silver's silence... well, it _bothers_ him. Far more than he cares to admit.

“May I?”

Startled by the voice, as well as his own lack of awareness, Flint turns to find McCreery standing at his side, drapped in an oiled cloak still dripping with rainwater. When Flint nods, McCreery slips off his outwear and takes a seat, hunching to get his lanky frame into the nook.

“Expecting someone else?”

Flint grunts into his ale.

“Well, I noticed you might need the company, since your men have abandoned you.”

Flint glances over. Though McCreery’s tone is light, the jab is far from innocent.

“Say what you will of me,” the other man continues, noting Flint’s glare, “but I’ve always been honest with you. We’re much more alike that you’d care to admit.”

“Have you come back for a reason? Or is it to simply piss me off?”

“Perhaps a bit of both,” McCreey replies, offering a quick grin. “I’ve spoken to my supplier, and we should have what you need in a few months.”

Flint sits up. “A _few_ _months_? That wasn’t a part of the deal.”

“Of course it is. Do you really expect me to have a warehouse full of canons, simply waiting for you to peruse? These things take time. Nassau isn’t the only island the British have been sniffing around.”

“In our correspondence you said a week, maybe two if your supplier was backed-logged. This isn’t what we agreed.”

“That was _months_ _ago_. Christ, do you think you’re my only buyer?”

“If you’re going to negate on this, I swear--"

McCreery sighs.

“James, I promise, this is as fast as I can get them. I know how much this means to you. I know… I know what they took from you.”

Flint stares.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s not a weakness, to care so deeply,” the other man offers. “Nor to seek retribution against those who have hurt you.”

 _No,_ Flint thinks _,_ his heartbeat rising _. He cannot know this._

_He wouldn't have told him._

McCreery’s fingertips brush the inside of Flint’s wrist.

“I saw you after Charles Town, James. I know what her loss did to you. How it changed you. What Governor Ashe did—he truly deserved everything that befell him that day.”

 _Her_?

Flint’s blood freezes in his veins.

_No._

_It’s not possible._

Darkness floods his vision. All around him the din of the tavern grows louder. Dozens of men celebrating their worthless lives, their pointless existences. How could their petty problems matter? How could anything matter, if she was…

If she was _gone_.

Flint stands, knocking back the table in his haste.

_I want to see this whole goddamned city, this city that you purchased with our misery, burned._

He can’t breathe.

_I want to see you hanged on the very gallows that you use to hang men for crimes far slighter than this._

_No._

_Christ._

_No. Not her. Anyone but her._

And yet Miranda’s voice continues, screaming, raging through his head. Raging at their _friend_ for his betrayal, for his cowardice.

 _I want to see that noose around your neck and I want to pull that fucking lever with my own two_ —

_No!_

He’s outside before he realizes he’s actually moved, pushing through the front door as if the Furies themselves are nipping at his heels. The rush of cool air is the only thing that grounds him as he staggers through a nearby alleyway, boots sloshing mud in every direction.

_She’s dead._

_She’s dead._

_She’s dead._

Flint knows it’s the truth—far truer than anything he’s ever known. When he finally stops, when he finds there's nowhere left to run, he presses his face to the wet bricks, darkness closing in around him as thunder reverberates overhead.

“James?”

For a moment, he hears her, calling out to him. But it’s not her; it cannot be her.

The voice calls again, and Miranda’s presence is washed away by the rain.

 _You_.

Silver is there, stumbling down the alley toward Flint as if he can do something to fix this. As if he doesn’t _know_. He takes hold of Flint’s elbow, begging Flint to answer him, and Flint can only turn, forcing Silver's back against the wall as he grabs two fistfuls of the other man's lapel. Silver’s eyes go wide, and he presses his palms to Flint's chest.

“You fucking liar!”

“Flint--"

Flint’s grip on him tightens, shoving Silver back against the wall.

“She’s dead!”

“I can explain, please--”

“You’ve known this whole time and you let me _believe_ … you let me believe she was _alive_.”

Silver shakes his head desperately. “I didn’t lie, I didn’t want--”

“What more is he hiding from you, James?”

McCreery steps into the darkness of the alley, watching Flint with mournful eyes. “Did he tell you he was working with Lord Ashe?”

_No._

Flint stills, his grip wavering.

_He wouldn’t._

_He… wouldn’t._

Silver swallows hard. “He’s _lying,_ Flint _._ You have to know he’s lying.”

“He was trying to sabotage your captaincy,” McCreery interjections, strolling closer. “But she got in the way. He and Ashe had been working together for months, trying to undermine you.”

Flint’s head pounds.

_It doesn't make any sense. That isn't what happened._

_That isn't…_

“Flint, _Jesus_ _Christ_ ,” Silver begs, his pale face illuminated by a flash of lightning, “you have to listen to me, he’s fucking _lying_. He paid off Hadlee for information. I think it’s been going on for some time—years even. I saw them together earlier, but I had to be absolutely _certain_. I think it’s the reason we were ambushed. McCreery _told_ the British where to find us.”

He stares at Flint, pleading, but Flint can barely look at him.

_Liar._

Silver shakes his head. _“Flint!_ He’s working against us. He took the bounty.”

When Flint still refuses to answer, something in Silver shifts. He knows he isn’t getting through. He knows Flint won’t let him, not again.

 _Traitor_.

Silver closes his eyes a moment, rainwater sliding down his cheeks.

When he finally moves, it’s surprisingly fast.

Tearing himself from Flint’s weak grip, Silver lunges at McCreery. There’s a dagger in his hand, one Flint recognizes instantly as his own. Silver must have slipped it from his belt at some point during their initial struggle, though he’d never used it against Flint, who'd been exposed the entire time. 

_Thief._

There’s a splash of mud next to them, and a new presence intervenes. One of McCreery’s guards steps between Silver and his target, blocking Silver's forward momentum with his body. When Silver pulls up short, the man strikes him across the face, sending him stumbling backward. Silver takes the hit, then the second, only mildly stunned, but it’s the third strike that lays him flat against the muddy cobblestones. As Silver collapses, Flint feels like his boots are bolted to the ground.

McCreery steps closer, drawing a pistol from the safety of his cloak as he offers it to Flint.

“James, let me help you. I know you’re confused, but that will pass. You’ll remember soon enough, and when you do, you’ll thank me, don’t you understand? Don’t let him take everything from you.”

_This isn’t…_

_This isn’t what he wanted._

_Was it?_

Flint’s own gun sits tucked inside his waistband, but he knows the rain has already soaked the powder inside. He only has seconds to finish this. To finish _Silver_.

 _Liar_ , he thinks, raising the pistol.

Silver stirs, blinking back raindrops as he stares up at Flint. His bottom lip is cut, bleeding freely, and Flint watches as the blood seeps slowly into the stones beneath him. Even if Silver had wanted to get up, to fight back, they both know it wouldn’t matter, not with the state of his leg. He flinches when Flint cocks the gun.

 _Thief_.

Flint’s finger curls around the trigger.

 _Traitor_.

When he fires, the noise is drowned out by the storm.

He’s made his choice.

McCreery’s head snaps back, the impact of the bullet sending his body crumbling to the ground.

Flint raises the gun again, this time as a bludgeon. He swings at the guard’s head, but the man is faster, and he smashes body-first into Flint, sending them both lurching sideways. Flint’s breath is knocked out of him as they struggle, and he dodges left, hearing the man’s dagger scrap against the wall behind them as he misses. Forcing the man back, Flint knees him in the groin, then lifts the gun again, only to find his wrist caught within a meaty grip. The man twists Flint’s arm, drawing it back far enough that he feels the bone begin to reach its breaking point. 

Thunder rumbles overhead as Flint is forced to drop the pistol.

As he watches it fall, a fist cracks against his jaw, sending him reeling.

Flint lands against a stack of packing crates, barely catching himself before he hits the ground. Dizzy, head pounding, he forces himself up and throws himself at the man. The guard swings widely at Flint with his blade but misses, both of their boots slipping against the stones as they try to steady their footing. It gives Flint a moment of respite, until the man barrels into him. Pressed back against the wall, Flint struggles to keep the blade away from his throat. Inch by inch it sinks closer, until he can feel the guard’s stale breath against his cheek.

The man jerks back suddenly, just as Flint’s strength gives out.

Startled, Flint watches as his attacker spins around, a dark patch of blood growing on his lower back. The man turns to face Silver, who’s somehow found his way to his feet in the melee. Flint’s dagger dangles in his hand, blood coating the blade. The guard growls in pain, wounded but still standing as he tosses Flint to the ground and turns his attention to Silver.

Silver shows no hesitation as he darts forward, swiping the blade across the man’s jugular.

The motion is so quick—so brutally efficient—that for a brief second Flint wonders if Silver missed his mark. That is, of course, until the man lurches backward, his hands gripping at his throat. As blood begins to seep between his clenched fingers, the guard's eyes go wide in fear. When he finally falls to his knees, gasping empty words, Silver maintains his white-knuckle grip on the knife until the man collapses.

If Silver is surprised by the turn of events, or by his own capacity for killing, he doesn’t act the least bit bothered by what he’s just done. As the rain washes away the blood splattered against his face, he motions toward Flint. “Help me lift them.”

Flint blinks. “ _What_?”

“We have to hide the bodies before others come looking for them.”

Flint staggers to his feet. “No, what we _have_ to do is get the fuck out of his port.”

“And go where, exactly?” Silver asks, pushing a strand of wet hair out of his eyes. “It’s fifty miles to the closest town. Our only chance is to wait out the storm until we can get back to the _Walrus_.”

“They’ll be watching our skiffs.”

“Yes, but not the one I purchased yesterday, on the way to this little foray. The same skiff I had subsequently moored just outside of the bay, should the need arise. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Flint opens his mouth, then shuts it. He settles on a glare.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Silver growls. “We both knew this was a terrible idea from the beginning, I was just proactive about it. Now help me hide the fucking bodies.”

Between the two of them, they make quick work.

There’s an overturned cart some feet away, all four of its axles so twisted it’s unlikely the merchant had ever intended to come back for it. The rain should clear away whatever blood remains, with the corpses hidden until they begin to reek of decay. If they're lucky, they’ll be halfway to Puerto Rico before that time. 

_Fucking Antigua._

As they heave McCreery’s body into the improvised tomb, Flint stares a moment at his slack features—at the blood matting his hairline. _A crimson crown for the dead,_ he thinks, stacking two crates against the opening. He knows he should feel angry at McCreery's duplicity, but Flint's chest brims with bitter resentment instead: for setting them down this path; for forcing his hand.

For making him _choose_.

Flint stands, rubbing futilely at the water in his eyes.

It's only rainwater—or mostly so. There's no time to weep for the dead tonight.

Since returning to their room at the tavern is no longer an option, they limp their way to an inn at the western edge of the port. The innkeeper makes a face as they enter, mud and rainwater soaking her floors. A handful of gold coins goes a long way, however, and she ushers them upstairs with little complaint. Flint adds a few more to her trove, increasing the level of discretion on their stay, as well as earning them a free bottle of cheap rum. Going by the smell emanating from the bottle when he uncorks it, it’s half cat piss, half sugarcane juice, and little in between. He takes it anyway. 

As the woman lets them into their room, she asks no questions as she hands Flint the key and then marches back downstairs. As the door shuts behind them, Flint sets the rum on a table by the door for safekeeping.

“The men will meet us at the rendezvous point in the morning,” Silver says, limping toward the room’s only chair. “Joji and Ainsley know about Hadlee. They’ll make sure— _fuck_!" 

Flint slams Silver against the wall.

He’d drawn his knife the moment Silver had turned his back, though Flint finds no comfort in the balanced weight of the blade as he now holds it to the other man’s throat. Silver shoots him a scathing glare.

“Flint, I swear to fucking Christ, if you don’t stop doing that--”

“ _Liar_ ,” Flint hisses.

Silver’s body slumps, his face falling. “I _told_ _you_ , I can explain everything.”

“How could you let me believe she was alive?”

“It isn’t that _simple_.”

“Isn’t it?”

Silver looks away, and for the first time Flint sees genuine pain in his eyes. “I was trying to spare you. You were so lost when she died; so reckless in the months that followed Charles Town. The thought of seeing you like that again, _losing_ you like that again.” He swallows. “I know you don’t trust me right now. I know you don’t--”

Flint presses closer, the anger in his chest ready to burst. “That’s the problem though, isn’t it? I _do_ trust you.”

Silver blinks in confusion.

“You… what?”

“After everything you’ve done, after _everything_ , I hesitated. I killed someone that I… _Christ_. I did it for you, and I don’t even understand _why_. _Why_ do I trust you?”

“Flint--"

“Why do I trust you?”

“It’s not—”

“Why,” Flint grits out, “do I _trust_ _you?_ ”

Although the knife still sits at the base of his throat, Silver shows no sign of worry for his own safety as he presses forward, trying to escape Flint’s grip. They both seem to know at this point that Flint doesn’t have the ability to use it, any more so than Silver had earlier.

“Let me go.”

“Why?” Flint demands again, his voice rising.

When Silver tries once more to push him back, Flint steps closer, pinning him to the wall. He repeats the question.

Silver’s voice rises in return. “That’s enough. _Enough_.”

“ _Why do I trust you_?”

“Flint--"

Flint can’t help the anger that roars through him, hollowing him out from the inside as he growls, forcing Silver back once again.

“ _Why do I trust you!”_

“Flint, _please_.”

“Why do I--”

Silver cuts him off with a kiss.

_Oh._

It’s too fast for Flint to process, too fast to be anything else save a chaste press of lips with the potential for _more_ , but Silver is suddenly drawing forward, not to escape this time, but to pull himself closer. As their lips meet, Silver takes Flint’s face into the curves of his palms, holding onto it him with such devastating familiarity that it saps the very ire from Flint’s body.

When he finally returns the kiss, however, Silver wrenches back.

“I... _oh_ _God_ , I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…”

As he pulls away, the color draining from his cheeks, Flint lets him go.

Silver doesn’t get far, his impulse to flee the room clearly tempered by the fact they’ve just killed one of the most powerful men on the island, but he does make a beeline for the rum. He takes a panicked, generous swig, then follows it up with a second. From the look on his face, Flint’s now more certain than ever about his cat piss theory.

He watches as Silver corks the bottle, then stumbles to perch at the edge of the bed. When Silver finally calms, his pallor returning once more to normal, Flint sits beside him. He takes the bottle before it can slip from Silver’s restless fingers.

“How long?”

Silver looks over, studying him a long moment. He frowns, clearly trying to read Flint’s intention, then winces as the motion pulls against his split lip. There are still flecks of dried blood on his jawline—his chin taking the brunt of his fall against the cobblestones—but there are no open wounds to worry about save a few scrapes. Silver seems mostly intact, thank Christ, though he'll have an impressive black eye in the morning. Flint resists the urge to swipe his thumb across the growing bruise.

“A few weeks,” Silver answers.

_A few weeks._

They’d been with the Maroons then, Flint knows. Fortifying their alliance. Preparing for Nassau’s invasion.

Flint looks down at his hands.

He’s not certain what such knowledge brings him. That he’s been sleeping with Silver? That their partnership is more than a _fling_ , or an easy distraction amidst the horrors of war? There’s more to it than that, _there has to be._ But what does that knowledge mean, without the context of the last two years to give it any meaning?

“I’m sorry,” Silver offers. “I should have told you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Would you believe it if I said I didn’t think you’d believe me?” When Flint doesn’t answer, Silver sighs, rubbing his forehead. “We weren’t exactly on the best of terms, the last you knew. So much has happened between us. Too much, really, to convey it into a single story that you’d accept as truth. I thought if I just waited, if I just gave it enough time, you’d find your way back.”

Flint considers, looking up again. “Even if I believe you, what then? Does that absolve you of your lies?”

“ _No_. No, I suppose not.” He shrugs weakly. “In my defense, your first act upon waking _was_ an attempt on my life.”

"Hmm."

They both sit in silence then, the rain pattering against the window panes.

Silver shifts. “Perhaps,” he offers, his voice lowering, “a small part of me thought that our time together wasn’t worth remembering. That, if you were to remain as you were, maybe it was for the best to just… end things cleanly.”

Flint turns at that, watching Silver debate what to say next. When he doesn’t speak, however, Flint feels an emptiness fill his chest. _How do you know?_ he wants to ask. _How do you know that’s what I wanted?_

“So, you’ve decided for both of us?” he says instead.

Silver winces.

“I’m not—I’ve never done _this,”_ he replies, his words forced. “What we had, what our partnership grew into. It was all so new, and I couldn’t see how this could be enough for you. How I could ever possibly compare to what you had, to what Thomas meant to you...”

Silver trials off, as if only just realizing what he’s admitted. It’s bittersweet, Flint thinks, hearing that name from Silver’s lips. He finds he’s not surprised that Silver would know it. After all, there’s only one person who could have told him.

Silver looks away then, a spark of shame flaring in his eyes. It burns Flint to the core, knowing he's the cause of it.

_Why do I trust you?_

He understands now.

How had he not seen it before this moment?

The details may be lost to him, his mind only now stirring itself from its fugue, but the mechanics of trust remain, ever expanding, ever _learning_. Muscle memory of the heart, repeated over and over until it’s so ingrained, so pivotal to survival, there’s no way to separate it from oneself, even in death.

_You trust those you love._

_And you love like no other_

Flint reaches out, his palm curving against Silver’s cheek. Although Silver startles at the touch, hesitating to believe what Flint is offering, he doesn’t move away as Flint pulls him closer, then closer still. His thumb caresses the corner of Silver’s bottom lip, and Silver shudders, closing his eyes. Flint waits for them to open again—waits for Silver’s tired blue gaze to finally meet his—before he sets his forehead against the other man’s temple.

“You’re enough,” Flint says.

When he draws Silver in for a kiss, there’s no reluctance now.

_You’ll always be enough._

Thunder rumbles outside, rattling the windowsill as Flint’s fingers sink into the strands of Silver’s wet hair, coaxing him deeper into the embrace.

With every responsive moan from Silver’s lips, Flint feels like a part of himself has been reborn— _reformed_.

They’re both too exhausted for this, too bruised and sore to make it last. Their clothes stick to them, wet and unforgiving, denying them the ability to do much more than press their bodies together in a desperate coupling. Even injured, Flint's body responds to Silver’s touch—to Silver's every movement—in a way he's never felt before.

Flint's right hand draws up Silver's spine, then back down again, teasing at the material of his shirt. When his left hand dips into the waistband of Silver's trousers, fingertips skimming along his belly as they slide lower, Silver moans at the touch and bends his head to mouth against Flint’s neck. Flint draws them both carefully onto the bed, nestling himself between Silver’s open thighs. He still has enough sense left in him to avoid Silver’s bad knee as he leans forward to kiss him again, his fingers now wrapped around Silver's warm cock. With one palm pressed into the sheets beside Silver’s head for balance, Flint lowers himself further, aligning their bodies until nothing remains between them save the uncomfortable drag of damp clothing as they move.

Silver’s hands slide down, working at the button’s of Flint’s trousers. When his fingers finally slip inside, Flint bucks at the sensation, lurching forward to press his lips against Silver’s throat. He laps at a drop of water that curls its way down Silver’s neck, then presses his teeth to Silver’s skin and begins to suck. Silver’s hips draw up to meet his own, fast and needy, and Flint twists his wrist, tightening his hold. Silver shivers at the attention, doubling his own efforts against Flint.

As Flint's thumb runs across Silver's slit, swiping at the viscid moisture gathered there, Silver writhes as he begins to moan Flint's name: at first his chosen, as if by simple habit; then followed more hesitantly by his given. He repeats them interchangeably after that, both names one in the same as he remembers he's allowed to know them both.

To know _him_.

“ _Please,_ ” Silver begs, rutting hard against Flint’s grip. “ _Please, James_ …”

Flint nearly comes at the sound of Silver's voice.

_Fuck._

He shifts, drawing Silver's cock out of his trousers. He needs to _see_ him, to--

Silver stills at the motion, suddenly so quiet it causes Flint to pause. Although Silver’s eyes are closed, his face remains a mask of calm—of _pleasure._ Uncertain of what he's done wrong, Flint draws back, only to have Silver's knees rise up high enough to curve against his waist. He feels Silver’s free hand slide up behind his neck, his fingers curling at the base of Flint's skull as he pulls him down for another kiss.

When Flint pulls back again some moments later, it drags a low groan from Silver’s otherwise occupied lips.

Releasing Silver's cock, he taps at Silver’s wrist, and the other man reluctantly withdraws his hand from Flint's breeches. Pliant but confused, Silver leans on his elbows, watching as Flint settles back, drawing his pants and smallclothes down past his hips. When he bends slowly forward, pressing their cocks together, the sudden glide of heated friction is nearly too much for Flint to bear. As if in agreement, Silver’s head draws back, his cheeks flushing as he moans. His exposed throat is too tempting to resist, and Flint nips at the tender flesh. He shifts upward then, pausing to nose at the soft skin below Silver’s ear while Silver shudders, panting his appreciation. While Flint’s mouth works, Silver’s hands slide down his back, his fingers curling into Flint’s flesh as if to ground himself. As if Flint might slip away again.

 _Never_ , Flint answers with press of his hips.

He repeats his promise, again and again, until Silver can only whimper into Flint’s neck as he finally releases, panting weakly as his thighs continue to tremble, still clutched around Flint’s hips. The sound of Silver’s pleasure tears through Flint, pushing him over the same edge.

He returns to himself a moment later, his face buried in Silver’s hair. It smells of salt and earth and lemon balm. Of _home_.

Silver’s lips brush against his temple.

He offers no words, but Flint understands what the silence means. 

_I’ll remember_ , Flint thinks.

He doesn’t know where they’re be in a few weeks, or a few months. He doesn’t know if his memory will return in full, or if he’ll be left with piecemeal recollections, accumulated as the days pass. There’s no time to bask in the peace they have now. The storm will end soon, and they’ll be free of this place, and back to his war. _Their_ war.

Flint has to believe he knew what he was doing—has to believe that the choices he made yesterday, the choices he’ll make _tomorrow_ , will be the right ones. That his uncertainty, however terrifying, can be remedied by a rediscovered trust.

For now, that has to be enough.

Remembering Silver is _enough_.

It’s a new start.

Pretending to be asleep for just a moment longer, Flint lets himself settle into Silver’s arms. As the storm rages on outside, battering at the windows, it’s Silver’s steady breathing that keeps him calm. Keeps him _present_. When the sound of Silver’s heartbeat overtakes the din of the rain, Flint finally closes his eyes.

_I’ll remember._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I remain a garbage person regarding deadlines, you know who’s not? The awesome Maggie, who made some gorgeous, angsty art for my fic! ༼♥ل͜♥༽ 
> 
> [GO SEE IT HERE ON TUMBLR AND REBLOG THE HELL OUT OF IT, YA’LL](https://in-darkness-be-dragons.tumblr.com/post/185964516415/banks-of-the-lethe-by-beelieve-y-he-steps-back)
> 
> All typos are mine and mine alone. Although [TheFunnyLady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFunnyLady) graciously betaed for me at the eleventh hour (literally). All the life kudos.
> 
> Finally, if you were wondering if I stole this title from an episode of Andromeda, definitely not. ᕕ༼✪ل͜✪༽ᕗ


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